


The Good Life

by missred



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: 2007, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sickness, Touring, Vomiting, prompt 1, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:25:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missred/pseuds/missred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob isn't used to being taken care of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Life

“Thank you, Las Vegas!”

Gerard’s voice was coming in muffled through Bob’s earplugs, and the roar of the crowd was a dull echo in his head. Bob was breathing hard behind his kit, vision swimming and heart pounding. He didn’t notice the lights go down & he was slow to react when Frank shook his shoulder, practically vibrating with post-show adrenaline.  
Bob offered a small smile to Frank’s grin and pulled himself up.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon man!”

Gerard was looking blissed out, Ray was tying his hair into a haphazard ponytail, and Mikey was off in some corner already, probably flirting with the cute tech.  
Frank pulled all of them together and announced

“I want to celebrate.”

* * *

Some techno was monstrosity was vibrating the foundation of whatever club/bar combo they had ended up at. Mikey had nixed all casinos because

“They’re souless lifesuckers out to make a profit from others suffering..” Bob didn’t get it, but Gerard had laughed and said,

“Not a fan of that vampire money, Mikey?” And that settled it.

So now they were probably the only people over twenty-one in Vegas not in a casino right now. Instead, Bob found himself in this God-awful small dive and his head was pounding and he didn’t know where anyone else was and he couldn’t exactly see straight enough to find them. When the fourth hammered girl in a too tight dress nearly spilled her drink all over him, Bob made an executive decision and sent out a group text.

“gonna crsh see you laatr”

The hotel wasn’t too far from wherever the hell Bob was, so he followed his phone’s blinking dot through the arid Vegas night, stumbling a little as he went. When he finally staggered, bleary eyed and dizzy, into his hotel room, it was already occupied. Ray was sprawled out one of the beds, working his way through an extra large pizza and a marathon of Lost.

“Hey.” Ray tossed a casual glance in his general direction, but quickly focused when he saw Bob breathing heavily just inside the doorway. He was there in an instant, not sure what to do but hovering nonetheless.

“You okay, Bryar?”

“I’m fine.” Bob told him firmly. Then turned around and promptly heaved into the toilet.

“Shit, how much did you drink?”

“Only--two beers--I’m fine.” Bob tried not to groan.

Ray took exactly five seconds to take in Bob, pale, sweaty, and shivering over the toilet before he shook his head and went to grab his phone. Ray sent out a text for the next day, knowing full well that everyone else was too shitfaced right now to check their phones.

“Bob’s sick. Might need a hospital idk yet. Will keep you updated.”

And then, just to Frank,

“do you have tylenol on the bus? I’m running out and Bob’s gonna need some”

Once it appeared that Bob had gotten the worst of it out, Ray half-dragged him to his bed, which he had equipped with the trashcan from the bathroom, just in case. Bob tried to shake Ray off, but his muscles decided to turn to jelly and he staggered until Ray grabbed him again and lugged him into bed. Bob’s head was killing him and even after he stopped puking up his guts, his stomach felt far from stable. His skin felt too tight and it was hard to breathe. When had Ray turned the heat on? Didn’t he know it was already ninety degrees in here?

Despite the inexplicable heat, Bob slept on and off through the night. He felt exhausted down to his bones. Every time he woke Ray was there with tylenol and water, and to Bob’s sleep-deprived, hazy brain, his fro started to look a little like a halo. The third time he woke up, when Ray was _still_ there, Bob mumbled

“M’okay. Y’should sleep.” But Ray either didn’t hear him or ignored him.

* * *

  
The next time Bob woke, Ray was shaking his shoulder gently.

“Sorry,” he stated, face full of sympathy, “it’s bus call. Your stuff’s already downstairs.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Bob’s voice was hoarse and despite the definite positive of not feeling like he was about to hurl, he still pretty much felt like shit. He ignored his protesting muscles and hauled himself, heavy-limbed, out of bed. For his own meager pride, Bob pretended he didn’t need the steadying hand Ray left on his bicep as they made their way to the bus.

The heat as he exited the cool lobby left a wave of nausea rising in the pit of Bob’s stomach, and he slipped gratefully inside the dark, air-conditioned bus. Shockingly, Gerard was fully conscious and coherent. He was also waiting just inside the door.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gerard demanded. If he had a hangover, he was hiding it marvelously. Frank emerged before Bob or Ray had a chance to answer.

“Woah, you look like shit, Bryar.”

“It’s no--” Bryan started.

“It’s definitely not nothing dumbass.” Frank shot him an appraising look.

“Go crash on the couch. My sick stuff’s in the back.”

“I don’t need--”

“BOB.” Gerard cut him off.

“Go get comfy on the motherfuckin couch right now or I swear to _God_ I will..” And he finished with some vaguely threatening hand gestures whose meaning Bob couldn’t interpret. He was sure they were not pleasant. Truthfully, he was too tired to argue anyways.

Bob trudged over to the couch and tried to collapse too gratefully on the deep cushions. He was losing a battle to his heavy eyelids when Frank remerged from the back, carrying the small black bag that was instantly recognizable as his “sick pack.”

“Hey, Bob, open up.”

Bob focused his eyes belatedly and saw Frank was holding up a tiny white thermometer.

“I don’t have a fever, Frank.”

“You don’t.” Frank repeated incredulously.

“Which is of course why your cheeks are flushed, you’re sweating through your tee shirt, and you can barely focus on what I’m saying right now. Jesus Christ, am I this annoying?” He asked.

“Yes.” Mikey shot back, deadpan, from the window seat.

“Fuck you.” Frank replied lazily.

Bob watched the exchange quietly, then yawned. Frank lunged at him, dropping all his weight on top of Bob and shoving the thermometer under his tongue.

“th’fuck Frnk!”

Frank smirked triumphantly.

“Stay still, Jesus.”

Bob shot him a mutinous look that was far from his usual calm demeanor, but stopped squirming and waited patiently until the thermometer beeped and Frank got the fuck off of him.

“What’s it say?” Gerard marched over, concern all over his face.

“102. Bob is definitely not playing tonight.” A well-concealed glee lingered in Frank’s voice.

Mikey ambled over from the corner and flopped down on the couch beside Bob.

“Don’t look so happy about it dipshit.”

“I’m not!” Frank protested.

“I’m sorry you feel shitty.” Frank added, turning to Bob.

“I’m just glad it’s not fucking _me_ this time.”

Gerard smacked him on the shoulder.

Bob had been drifting, half way between asleep and awake, but he took the pause in the conversation to join in.

“Guys, I never said I couldn’t play tonight.”

All eyes turned to him.

“..Are you serious?” Gerard asked.

“What he _means_ is, are you dumb or are you stupid?” Frank chimed in.

“Guys, seriously, I’m good.”

Bob ignored the snort he heard from Mikey’s corner and hauled off the couch. The worried huff from Ray almost turned him around, but Bob trudged past him and made his way to the back of the bus. They were all being melodramatic anyways. Bob knew his limits. Sort of. He was like ninety percent sure he wasn’t gonna collapse on stage or anything like that. So that meant he was playing tonight. After he took a shower. He felt fucking disgusting.

* * *

 

When Bob emerged, flushed but clean, he was disappointed to see no one had returned to normal. Mikey was still scrolling on his phone, and Gerard had popped in the first Batman, but none of them were really watching it. They were watching him, in furtive sideways glances that had Bob’s skin itching.

“Would you guys chill out? It’s a fuckin’ cold.”

Gerard looked on the verge of denying everything & then dropped his shoulders and said helplessly,

“You just look so _bad_.”

Bob snorted.

“Thanks Gee, you really know how to sweet talk ‘em.”

Admittedly, Bob was feeling way too tired for having just come off a hotel night, his skin felt too tight, too hot, and everything _ached_ in a way that made him never want to get sick ever again. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t something you could tell from the outside. He checked his watch. There were at least four more hours before they’d reach San Diego--plenty of time grab a nap before soundcheck...Bob’s eyelids were sliding shut before the Joker made his first appearance.

* * *

 

“Aw man, that was fucking awesome--”

“Shut _up_! Bob’s still out you idiot.”

Bob dragged himself to some semblance of consciousness when he heard Frank’s triumphant crowing and Gerard’s not-so quiet whispering. The bus was dark.

“hmmnggh..” Bob couldn’t suppress a sleepy groan. He still felt like ass and was kind of ready to sleep again, like, right now. He knew he had to get up though.

“Guys, what time is sound check? I don’t wanna miss--” Bob stopped short. The curtains on the bus weren’t drawn, as he first thought. It was dark outside and the guys were sweaty and Ray was looking at him with a mixture of apprehension and apology.

“You looked beat, man, we just let you sleep.”

And then Bob got this awful guilty feeling in his gut because he’d let down his band and the kids and he’d been feeling mostly not-nauseated for most of the day but now he thought he might puke.

“Shit, shit, _shit_. Who covered for me? Oh shit, I didn’t mean to--”

“Jesus Christ Bob!” Mikey never yelled, and Bob froze.

“You were sick. You are sick. It happens. We called Spencer from Panic, he was more than happy for a chance to take a break and play a show instead of recording all day.”

Bob let out a short huff of air.

“Yeah, the world’s not gonna fall apart if you take a breather, you know.” Frank added, curling up next to Bob.

“I..thanks.” Bob said quietly.

“Course.” Mikey said.

“Don’t be stupid.”

And then he joined Frank on the other side of Bob. Ray and Gerard took the floor and they were sweaty and disgusting from playing and it took less than a minute for Mikey and Gerard to start arguing about some foreign horror film Bob could never remember the name of. Most of Frank ended up on Bob. With that familiar pressure pulling him down to sleep, Bob let himself drift again, and wondered how he ever deserved to have it this good.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt 
> 
> "Bob from mcr? I think there is an extreme lack for him. How about just gen band fluff on tour? Where maybe he gets really sick during a hotel night and whoever's rooming with him stays with him all night and then has to drag him back to the bus and the rest of the band freak or something."
> 
> Requested by anon. 
> 
> Set in 2007, there is some (fictional) underlying anxiety for Bob about not feeling like he belongs in MCR and not wanting to be a burden--but the boys take care of that:)
> 
> Apologies for any formatting or grammar issues. (It would be awesome if someone could tell me how to indent on ao3!)


End file.
